


Pavane for a Dead Boy

by candied_violets



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, canon limb loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 23:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15617322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candied_violets/pseuds/candied_violets
Summary: Leo copes with the tragedies he has suffered, slowly picking up the pieces of his heart to carry on. Vincent is alongside him.





	Pavane for a Dead Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to work on this chapter a little bit more, but decided to post it now to make it in time for Elliot's birthday. The story is set after everything transpired, i.e., after Elliot's death, but he will still make appearances as part of Leo and Vincent's memory and conversation, and of Leo's dreams and hallucinations. I suppose it's a eulogy of sorts, for Elliot.  
> Happy birthday to Elliot Nightray, the noble, self-sacrificing boy with a heart full of love.

Leo jolted awake drenched in cold sweat. A damp duvet pressed down on his body with stifling weight as strands of his hair clung to his face and prickled his eyes. As he blearily tried to make sense of his surroundings, noting the dim strip of moonlight clashing against the darkness of the room, pain struck. He grabbed at his left arm, or rather, the space that his left arm used to occupy, and thrashed as every ugly stab of pain coursed through his body. The motion caused the duvet to tangle around his limbs and constrict his movement, spiking up more panic from the boy. Breathing steadily became more difficult. It was then that a voice cut through to reach him. 

“Master, master! Calm down!” 

Focusing on the voice, a welcome distraction from the numbing pain, Leo gradually pulled himself together. When he opened his eyes again, he found his bedchamber illuminated by the warm light of a candle burning on his bedside table. The candlelight also made Vincent’s locks appear more golden than they usually… _ah, so it was Vincent._

“My, my… left arm. It hurts,” the boy gritted out.

Vincent promptly set himself to work. After all, this was not the first time his master had an episode. With an efficiency gained from experience, he disentangled Leo’s limbs from the duvet and lifted him to a sitting position, gently rubbing his back with one hand and picking up a wet cloth with the other to dab at glistening sweat and tears. Upon hearing a maid announce that the bath he ordered for has been prepared, he gathered Leo’s shaking frame and headed toward the bathroom. 

After getting Leo out of his nightclothes, he lowered him into the tub, making sure beforehand that the water was not too hot. Leo let out a breath he was holding as he was eased into the water, slowly releasing the tension in his body and the grip he had on his left shoulder. The valet watched him attentively even as he began to pour in scented oils, hoping they had the relaxing effect they were purported to possess. 

“Lavender?” Leo asked, breaking the silence that hung over them.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Fitting,” he mused, eyes darting over to the surface of the water from which the scent of the herb was rising. 

“Indeed, I was told that they are often used to treat restlessness, insomnia, and pain, among others.” 

Leo shook his head. “No, it’s not that.” After a beat, “I was talking about the language of flowers.”

“Ah, I see,” Vincent said. “What might it be, for lavenders, then?” 

Several moments passed. Accepting his master’s lack of an answer, Vincent got to helping him wash, pouring water over his back and lathering his hair with soap. Leo closed his eyes and accepted the assistance, occasionally tensing whenever the pain returned, but mostly placid by then. The current Duke of Baskerville, who came from a rather humble background, usually despised having simple tasks such as bathing done for him by someone else. Even short of one arm, he made it a point to retain as much of his independence and privacy as possible. Anyone who dared to remove his tie or cut his meat for him, either it be in deference to his rank or in a misplaced sense of charity for an “invalid,” would be met with the young lord’s famous temper.

However, in nights like this, he would be emotionally drained and physically depleted enough to allow Vincent to take care of him. Soaked in bathwater, newly shed tears, and pale moonlight, the sixteen-year-old looked terribly young, tragically fragile. 

A while later, with Leo suitably clean, Vincent guided him out the bathtub and draped a large towel over his shoulders. He was in the process of drying his hair when Leo broke the silence for a second time.

“Distrust.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My distrust in my own memories and my sanity cost me his life, and now a plant that represents the sentiment is with me on nights where the loss tortures me,” he intoned, his voice barely above a whisper.

It took Vincent a second to realize that Leo just answered his question from earlier. At a loss of words, Vincent returned to drying off Leo’s hair, and sighed inwardly in relief and self-reproach when the boy spoke no further and wiped the water from his body.

When the two returned to the master bedroom, Leo properly dried and dressed in a fresh nightshirt, the chambermaid had long finished remaking the bed and had set out a bottle of brandy and a glass on the nightstand, as was customary. On the first couple incidents, Leo had also taken shots of morphine to dull the pain, but after being warned of developing a dependence, the master and valet agreed to administer the drug only as a last resort when the pain became exceptionally unbearable, settling for a few sips of brandy on most nights. Watching the boy return to bed after downing a glass, Vincent recalled the first time Leo had an episode. 

A few weeks ago, he rushed to the master bedroom at the sound of Leo’s screams only to be told that his left arm – his _nonexistent_ left arm – hurt. In that moment, Vincent could not help but feel lost. Leo’s left arm was cut off by the Mad Hatter long ago, and only a limp, empty sleeve hung in the space it once filled. The boy continued to writhe from the pain that he argued came from a missing limb, and Vincent panicked, seized with a worry that bordered on fear at the thought that there might be something terribly wrong with his master. 

He called in a physician, who turned out to be a dimwitted, bumbling incompetent in his eyes. After issuing a disclaimer that he could not be certain, since Baskervilles had a physiology closer to that of a chain than that of a human, the man concluded that nothing seemed out of the ordinary, his grace seemed to be in good health. Vincent seethed, his hands almost going out to grab him by the collar then and there. Who did he think he was kidding, saying he seemed fine though he “couldn’t be sure,” when his patient was still trembling in pain right in front of him? Unaware of the fact that he just narrowly avoided being manhandled in the middle of the night, the physician injected the boy with a shot of morphine, recommended having him drink some brandy, and left.

As soon as the man was out, Vincent gave out orders to draw a bath, remake the bed, lay out a clean nightshirt, and fetch a bottle of brandy from the cellars. He inwardly berated himself for not doing so earlier when he was waiting for the physician to arrive. He knew he was flustered, but only then did he realize just _how_ flustered he was. Leo remained mute the entire time, only letting out occasional groans of pain. At first, he seemed mostly incoherent from his suffering. Now he looked tired and distant, his soul wandering in a faraway place. 

After washing and clothing his master, Vincent helped him back to his bed. Leo’s breathing seemed to have evened out after some time spent in the warm water, much to Vincent’s relief. The bedding, which had been just as crumpled and soaked in sweat as his nightshirt, was replaced. A brandy sat on the bedside table, reflecting the light of the candle beside it in hues of gold and amber.

Vincent poured a glass and handed it to Leo. Seeing him struggling to manage a firm grip, Vincent took the glass back and tilted it against the boy’s mouth to help him drink. 

_In good health,_ Vincent echoed the physician’s words, _but he’s clearly suffering. Does that mean that this has to do with the mind?_

It was only then that a fairly recent memory came to his mind, something his brother had said to him when he visited the flat he was lodging in. His only family, whom Vincent adored more than anyone and anything in the world, was also short of one arm. He had willingly burnt it away in order to protect his former master. Cradling a cooling cup of coffee in his hand, he said that he did not feel a single iota of regret over his arm. However, he also said, in a quieter voice, that when the weather was wet, or he didn’t feel well, or had another nightmare, a ghost of his left arm would start itching or hurting like it was still there. 

“The rest of my body didn’t really catch up with the fact that an arm wasn’t there anymore, I guess,” he said, and he said it with such an air of sadness that sent Vincent scrambling for words of comfort. If Gilbert’s grief came only from the incineration of his left arm, Vincent would have known what to say. _You’re a lord, you can have servants tend to whatever business you need tending to, or have you still not gotten used to being upper-class?_ Or, _You’re right-handed, you can still be the amazing marksman you were, no cause for worry,_ or, _Your cute little brother will be glued to your side, making sure that you’re not inconvenienced in any way._ Something like that, to lighten the mood, maybe get a small laugh out of his brother. 

But Vincent knew that was not the case. What Gilbert truly mourned was Oz Vessalius, whose loss he projected onto the loss of his arm. So Vincent kept quiet, unable to find what to say that would make it better for his brother in any way. His heart beat with a dull ache whenever he thought about the weary smile his brother wore as he bid goodbye to him, seeing him off when he rose to head back to Baskerville manor. “Take care,” Vincent had said, with more pleading in his voice than he intended, and Gilbert had simply replied “You too, Vince,” with that sad, empty look.

While the degree of pain was much worse, Leo also seemed to be suffering a condition of the same vein. Vincent also remembered a conversation he happened to overhear once in the corridors of Pandora Headquarters, where the Mad Hatter admitted to Sharon Rainsworth that his empty left eye felt sore on wet days. _Phantom pain, from a body part that was there..._ Vincent mused, _and a person who was there._

A gesture from Leo, signaling that he had finished his drink, had pulled Vincent back from his memories. He put away the glass and dragged a chair next to the bed to guard the boy’s sleep. Leo turned his gaze toward Vincent. 

“I had a nightmare. My arm was cut off, and I was… I was in a lot of pain. I think I was still caught in it when I woke up. I apologize, for causing you trouble in the middle of the night,” he said.

“No, master. I have sworn to protect you. Of course I would help, if you were in any sort of pain,” Vincent said, and meant it. Leo just closed his eyes. Some twenty, thirty minutes passed, but Leo showed no sign of sleep. 

“If sleep evades you, master, I could use Dormouse’s powers to help you sleep,” Vincent offered, to which Leo gave no reply. After a pause, however, a sob broke through the quiet, and Vincent was instantly at alert. Was his master in pain again despite even taking a morphine shot? What if there really was a serious physical problem, and the physician simply failed to recognize it?

“Master, what is it? Does your arm hurt again? Master!” he cried. Leo opened his mouth to answer, but only more sobs burst out, blocking him from forming words. The few seconds Leo took to compose himself felt agonizingly long to Vincent, who anxiously watched on. 

Finally, Leo said, “In my dreams, I saw El, ah, Elliot,” and dissolved into tears. “Elliot, he, he was _dying_ , and there was so much blood, but my arm hurt, and I was useless, and Elliot was dying…” 

Vincent was, again, at a loss. He was well-liked in high society for being a charming conversationalist, but his gift only extended to domains such as politics, arts, or superficial personal affairs. Polite conversation did not require him to bare his heart, and he could chatter on four hours with all his demons safely guarded away. When someone was open before him, however, revealing all the bleeding wounds on their soul for him to see, Vincent was rendered mute. No one was ever close enough to him to consider him an emotional confidante. Yes, some of the ladies he approached in the past, either to gain social leverage or to acquire information, would tell him a few personal things, but he did not care for any of them. It was only very recently that people he cared about, cared about with his whole heart and being, began to let him in on their sorrows, and Vincent felt useless and helpless every time. 

Vincent hesitated, and awkwardly reached to pat Leo’s shoulder. Leo didn’t even seem to notice, and wept with no sign of stopping. Worried that he might pass out, Vincent eventually put the boy to sleep with Dormouse’s powers. He stood vigil until dawn.

Since then, the pair settled into a routine. When nightmares, phantom pain, or both came to Leo, Vincent moved him to the bathroom. Depending on his condition, he helped Leo to either a sponge bath or a full one. He dressed him, sat him down on a newly-made bed. When the pain was too much, a physician would be called in to inject Leo with morphine. If not, he would down a glass of brandy, and Vincent would summon Dormouse to get him to sleep. 

As per such protocol, at present, Vincent has now washed, clothed, fed him brandy, and was seeking the right time to call upon his chain. On nights like this, his master was never able to fall asleep on his own, so the use of Dormouse was necessary. Leo had once told him, curled up in a fetal position in the bath, that on bad nights, unspeakable thoughts inundated to drown him, and his mind would be chained to a punitive state of consciousness no matter how exhausted he was. Vincent thanked luck that his second chain had the power to induce sleep. 

Leo tossed and turned until he settled into a comfortable position. Vincent pulled the duvet further over his chest, and with a whispered “Good night, master,” placed a hand on his forehead to exert his chain’s powers. The form of a large mouse-chain, with its long tail curled in a loose spiral, cast a deep shadow on the bed. An anemic dawn was breaking from the far horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> As Jun Mochizuki mentioned that the Pandora Hearts universe is loosely based on the Victorian era, although with some liberties taken here and there (such as Echo’s short dress), I relied on the period for any specific references, such as administering brandy as a restorative to patients. Prescribing cocaine, opium, alcohol etc. was common practice at the time.


End file.
